


Between the Gold and Shadows

by hhamlet



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drama, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Exes, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Werewolf Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:20:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29815233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hhamlet/pseuds/hhamlet
Summary: Nothing is as it seems in 12 Grimmauld Place. Ghosts haunt every corner, threatening to rip apart what remains of the dilapidated safehouse. Wizards and witches are going missing, dwindling the Order of the Phoenix's already exhausted numbers. Threats are everywhere, but perhaps none quite as strongly as the invisible ones within the old Black townhouse.It's been six years since the Battle of Hogwarts. Eight years since Draco Malfoy has gotten a decent night's sleep. Seven years since he last remembered what it was like to be a part of something greater. The Order doesn't trust the former Death Eater that lives in the tower high above Grimmauld Place, serving their greater purpose from a reserved distance. If it was up to Ron, he would have been thrown into the Thames by now.There's just one problem: they need him.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	Between the Gold and Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written in the fandom side of the internet in quite some time--but here comes that age-old itch!

**CHAPTER ONE**

❝ _if i'm on fire, you'll be made of ashes too. ❞_

* * *

In the cold and unforgiving gloom of London, on a dreary and drizzling October evening, Draco Malfoy withdrew the heavy velvet curtains that isolated him from the rest of the world. Sheets of rain splattered against the windows, rattling Grimmauld Place’s creaking panes and streaking the glass with rivulets of iridescent light from the reflection of the streetlamps blazing below. Muggles meandered down the street below, subconsciously tugging their wool coats tighter around their frames and ushering past the magicked townhome that slumbered between 11 and 13 Grimmauld Place. The moonlight cut through the craggy trees in the park across the street, gnarled branches slicing through the warm golden glow of the moon like withered fingers wrapped around a light. Draco’s fingers curled around the heavy green drapes he’d tugged open, his ivory-toned skin a stark contrast against the rich emerald fabric clutched between his fingers. Moonlight slid across his chambers, a thin beam sliding across the weathered planks of his room and illuminating the cell he’d been forced to call a home.

It wasn’t the haunted townhome that kept him caged, but rather the house’s current occupants. 12 Grimmauld Place was a Black home, so by all rights, it belonged to his mother’s family. What would Narcissa Malfoy say if she could see the state of the place now? Littered with mudbloods and blood traitors; those who had defied the Dark Lord, time and time again, for the sake of unity that did not truly exist? If he closed his eyes, perhaps he’d be able to hear the house’s creaks and sighs and interpret the noises for what they were: the cries of the dead. His long-removed ancestors, rattling against their self-imposed iron cages and screaming for revenge and retribution. His eyes fluttered shut, dark lashes brushing against his sharpened cheekbones; behind his eyes, Walburga Black screamed, ripping at her flesh and tearing into her face like ribbon and paper. Draco’s eyes opened at the sight, his lids heavy as he turned away from the taunting moon that hung above him, swollen and glowing.

There was a knock on the door and Draco scowled, his steely grey eyes glancing over towards the door. His fingers dropped the curtain, twitching it shut as he glided over towards the door, his wand sliding from the nightstand and into his scarred right hand. One cursory glance at the clock that hung above his door read the time: ten minutes til midnight. Draco opened the door a crack, the dim lighting illuminating the shadowy outline of Ron Weasley. Draco’s eyes flashed as he took in Weasley’s stocky frame and he cocked his head, a strand of white-blonde hair falling against his forehead as he sized up his intruder.

“If you were looking for a late-night tumble, Weasley, I’m sorry to disappoint, but you’re not quite in my tax bracket,” Draco drawled, delighting in the way Ron’s face reddened with rage. They really _had_ chosen the wrong man for this job, hadn’t they? Draco extended a hand, pointing in the direction of the stairs with his thumb. “And I’m afraid the soup kitchen’s just down the hall.”

“They’re ready for you,” Weasley growled, his eyes darkening at Draco’s words. Perhaps the poverty jokes were a bit tasteless, now that they were all shacked up in this house together, in quarters so cramped even a house-elf would complain, but the most wicked and prime part of Draco’s soul relished in the rise he got out of his old school enemies. The Malfoy heir exited his chambers, making sure the door clicked shut behind him before following Weasley through the din of the house. Though most of its occupants were still awake, the lights had been all but extinguished. Shadows spread across the wall as Draco descended the creaking stairs, blanketing both men in darkness, until the only beacon was Weasley’s ruddy red hair. Perhaps the ginger git had some use, after all; he could be their budget lighthouse.

Weasley led them through the main floor of the house, until Draco found himself stepping inside of the sitting parlor that housed many of the Order’s exclusive meetings. An oak table had been permanently erected into this space with chairs often left haphazardly around the table from the various conferences that took place. As Draco stepped into the room, he noticed that the usual occupants had dwindled down to a select few. Kingsley Shacklebolt stood in one corner of the room, an elbow propped against the marble mantle above the fireplace as he eyed Draco stonily. Mad-Eye Moody sat in a chair on the right, his gnarled fingers gripped around the head of his cane so tight his knuckles had turned a ghastly shade of white. Viktor Krum was there, along with the elder Weasley children, Bill and Charlie, (how delightful, it was like a constant fucking family reunion here) and Bill’s wife, Fleur. Draco ignored the expectant and wary gazes of these people, his eyes instead falling on the two people positioned at the head of the table: Harry Potter and Hermione Granger.

“How charming, a surprise party,” Draco managed, maneuvering himself into a seat opposite two-thirds of the Golden Trio. Their ever-faithful lap dog, Weasley, glanced at Draco one final time before moving over to sit beside his friends. Though his face remained cool and impassive, Draco couldn’t deny the way his eyes scanned the room, as though he had difficulty settling his gaze on any particular spot. When he parted his lips next, his voice came out even and clear. An impenetrable rock, even if the stirrings of _something_ fluttered deep in the caverns of his chest. “I’m afraid I’m not dressed in my Sunday best.” He gestured towards the sweater and dark, pressed pants he wore.

“This is serious, Malfoy,” Potter said at last, his voice unusually grave as he glanced down the long table at Draco. In the dim light, his glasses reflected a prism of light, casting flashes of light across the concerned faces of their companions. As Draco registered Potter’s words, he leaned back in his chair, his back stiff and unforgiving against the hard wood of his seat. _Serious_ —that always seemed to be the word Order members were using these days. _Hopeless_ was, perhaps, a more apt description for the unique position they found themselves in. Draco was twenty-three years old and never had there been a bleaker outlook on his hopelessly short life. He didn’t need to look around the room to read those same sensations flickering in the haunted, hollow gazes of the Order of the Phoenix. They were exhausted. Worn to the bone. They were dwindling in numbers and strength; each day felt like a persistent limp towards a finish line that would not reveal itself to them.

But if they were expecting him to _apologize_ —

“People are _dying_ , Malfoy; you can’t keep sneaking off without letting anyone know your whereabouts,” Potter continued, and there was steel in his voice that had not been there a moment before. _We are_ **_failing_** , is what Potter omitted, though his voice nearly wavered with the confession. “How are we supposed to continue to trust you if you can’t commit to remaining here when you aren’t off on missions?”

“What I do in my free time is hardly your concern, Potter, unless you’d like to leash me like a dog and chain me to my room,” Draco managed smoothly, picking an invisible bit of lint off his sweater as he refused to meet the burning gazes of the others. Let them stare, then; let them sneer, jeer, and curse him in their pretty, empty little heads. There were worse things to be than hated.

“Perhaps we’ll do exactly that, boy,” Mad-Eye grumbled from his place at the table, that false eye of his whirring as it inspected Draco from head-to-toe. Draco stilled under the elder man’s scrutiny, pressing his palms against the tabletop, his wand wedged beneath his outspread hands as he met Mad-Eye’s critical gaze. Draco did _not_ miss, however, the way Viktor Krum’s stare snagged on the scars that marred Draco’s right hand, spiderwebbing like roots in a poisoned tree. Krum (wisely) chose not to comment on the scars, but it was a brand that had been burned into the very core of Draco’s being. He was aware—too aware, perhaps—of every curious pair of eyes shot his way since he’d joined their ranks. They wondered at the alterations to his hands; they marveled at the scar that curved down his temple, down along the edge of his cheek like a crooked river, before stopping at the corner of his mouth.

He supposed it was rather like—

“No one is suggesting you be chained to your room, though I wouldn’t give my brother any ideas,” Charlie Weasley commented gravely, his curly hair flopping in front of his face as he sternly eyed Draco from across the table. Draco rolled his eyes heavenward, allotting him a momentary reprieve from the expectant glares of the rest of the table. By the time his eyes flickered back towards the others, he felt his eyes locking onto a pair of warm, brown eyes across the room, set between delicately furrowed brows. Hermione Granger was studying Draco quite differently than the way others in the Order of the Phoenix often looked at him. Her eyes were warm, like amber dipped in honey; once upon a time, in a different world, they had even been welcoming. Her riot of brown curls that normally framed her face like a flurry of storm clouds had been pulled back today, forced into a braid that hung limp across her shoulder. It was a crime, Draco thought, for that hair to be restrained.

_His hand curled around tendrils of her hair, watching them wind around his fingers like flowers growing on a vine. Her eyes, open and trusting as they sought his out in the darkness. His mouth—his traitorous, desperate mouth—latching onto hers with a conviction harsh and raw enough to shake the mountains. This was heaven and her lips were the gates of salvation. He was a sinner, fallen to his knees and whispering words of rapture and redemption as he murmured her name like a prayer. He knew, absently, that if he stroked his fingers down the column of her neck, just underneath her hair, her entire body would quake and shiver against his._

_He knew her body like a map, and if he traced his fingers through her valleys and mountains, he would find his way home. It was lodged somewhere, in the press of their bodies, waiting for him to come and claim it._

“All we’re asking for is a bit of honesty from you, Malfoy—given the circumstances, I don’t think anyone finds that unreasonable,” a voice tore him out of his reverie. Charlie Weasley, still prattling on. Granger’s cheeks had pinkened, as though his gaze had stripped her bare, and something akin to sorrow and anger reflected itself onto her face before she tore her gaze away and tightened her jaw. Draco blinked, the memories sliding from his mind like fog. His heart felt like a restless bird, threatening to burst free from his chest and splinter his ribs. His face remained impassive, though his breathing hitched just slightly, before he directed his attention towards Charlie. There was, of course, someone who could vouch for his periodic absences from Grimmauld Place, but to reveal that information to this shoddy group of self-declared martyrs would risk his current _situation_ here among them. Instead, Draco resolved himself to his fate: _playing nice_.

“Fine. I won’t leave unless I have express permission from my jailers.” Lies. All lies. Draco’s fingers drummed against the wooden table, his eyes scanning the room as if daring anyone to contradict him. When no one spoke, he continued. “But surely you can’t think I’m responsible for the people who have gone missing lately. I have nothing left to do with the creatures that have descended on Malfoy Manor—surely my _cooperation_ here proves that.”

“Or that’s just what you want us to think,” Viktor Krum countered, his voice low as his eyes narrowed towards Draco. “There is only one person at this table, after all, who bears a mark suggesting otherwise.” Draco’s fingers twitched for his wand, resisting the age-old impulse to press a hand against the Dark Mark that burned against his forearm. But it was covered by the thick cable-knit sweater he was wearing—there could be no judgment for a mark that did not call or sing to him. Not the way it had to his aunt…or his father.

“Arguing about this solves none of our problems,” Hermione argued in a breathless rush, her eyes refusing to meet Draco’s across the table. She reached into her lap, withdrawing a worn notebook and a quill. She flipped open to a page of parchment that had been scribbled in, turning the book towards Draco and sliding it towards him. “We didn’t bring you down here to reprimand you, Malfoy, though I’m sure the conversation certainly seems that way.”

“What we need is help,” Potter cut in as the book slid before Draco. He glanced down, recognizing Hermione’s elegant, loopy handwriting and reading a list of names below. A quick glance showed they were all familiar—some, perhaps, significantly more than others. “These are people we have reason to believe have insight on the missing persons cases. We want you to help us infiltrate their base to capture and question them.”

“Why.” It wasn’t a question, so much as a demand between gritted teeth.

“We think they’ll be more likely to listen to you than us,” Potter said simply with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “It’s not up for debate, either. This is what the Order needs to move forward—I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable, but we really have to—”

“You’re absolutely stark-raving mad if you think I’m going anywhere near this,” Draco snapped, pushing himself to his feet and tossing the book onto the table. Bill Weasley instinctively moved in front of his wife, shielding her as though he was afraid Draco would choose to hex the Veela. “I understand the scar on your head probably scrambled your brains a bit, Potter, but I didn’t realize you were _delusional_.”

“This isn’t a _question_ , Malfoy, it’s a _request_ —we’ve all had to make sacrifices here—”

“Don’t talk to me about _sacrifices_ , Potter, as if you have any idea what the word _actually_ means,” Draco managed, his voice clipped. He straightened, ignoring the scathing looks Kingsley and Mad-Eye sent his way, as he glowered at an enraged Harry down the room. “I’ve sold you information. I’ve told this room things that likely should have gotten us all killed ten times over. But if you’re asking me to bring _them_ —” he jabbed a hand towards the paper, its names burned into his mind. “—into this, to expose myself and others to something that _won’t_ give you the information you need, that’s where I draw the line. Find yourself another one-trick pony.” He opened the door, turning his back on the others in the room as he stalked out of the room. He could have sworn, in the haunted hollows of his mind, that he heard Granger call his name. _Draco_. Still, he pushed on, his shoes clipped and creaking against the ancient wooden floors as he ascended the stairs back towards his tower.

Draco Malfoy was through chasing ghosts. They were long dead.


End file.
